


The Youngest Trevelyan

by CptEmie



Series: Fire at the Heart of the World [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anger, Backstory, Cousins, F/M, Family, Frustration, Hurt/Comfort, Love, Original Character Death(s), Relationship Problems, Religion, Remorse, Siblings, Violence, ch 3 got smutty, my hand slipped
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-12
Updated: 2016-04-07
Packaged: 2018-04-14 08:46:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4558227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CptEmie/pseuds/CptEmie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of one-shots providing backstory and other scenes in between major plot points for Inquisitor Constance Trevelyan. SPOILERS AHEAD!</p><p>Violence warning applies to chapter titled "Keller".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Keller

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The story of her brother, and how she was sent to the Circle.

Valentine and Lilah Trevelyan knew their place in Ostwick society. They consciously produced four children and prepared as best they could for their futures. Their eldest was a boy, thank the Maker, and so the Trevelyan name would carry on. Maxim would be the next Bann, so their duty was essentially fulfilled. Their next child was a beautiful chestnut-haired girl who they betrothed in her third year to the young son of a noble home in Starkhaven. Lady Grace Trevelyan would become a nobleman’s wife by the time she was 20, and that was very satisfactory for her parents. The youngest were the twins, Keller and Constance. Keller was a strong boy, quick to learn whatever he was taught. They promised him to the Templars.  
But for all their good planning, they did not know what to do with their willful, disobedient youngest daughter. She followed her brother to his fighting lessons thinking they did not know. She read ridiculous fairy tales of valorous Grey Wardens and treacherous dangers. She spoke the words of the Chant as though they were a battle cry. She would, they supposed (about the time that she turned 10) be able to turn her religious devotion to some benefit and perhaps become a suitable Chantry sister.  
Sometime soon after they had quietly decided to give her to the Sisters, Constance and Keller got into a scrap in the far woods of their father’s land.  
They’d gone out to practice fighting. Keller wanted to impress his trainer, a knight called Ser Colling who was also their guard, and enlisted his sister to help him train. They were thick as thieves and never did anything apart anyway. So one afternoon directly after luncheon, they stole away on their horses to practice in secret.  
Finding a clearing near the edge of the furthest tree line, the twins dismounted and drew on each other. Keller had a shortsword that looked on him to be as sizeable a weapon as he could manage – Constance favoured a set of iron and onyx daggers.  
They barely touched blades, dodging each other’s attacks and rolling around in the grass laughing with glee. An hour or more passed and they were thinking of heading back to the estate house to raid the pantry when they heard a pair of loud, low voices. Two men bearing a pheasant each emerged from the tree line and head a good rumbling guffaw at the sight of Keller’s shortsword pointed at them.  
“Poaching on the Bann’s land is a criminal offense!” Keller stood as tall as he could and tugged Constance behind him, attempting what he assumed a knight would do. They laughed and walked on, but Keller could not let the offence stand. “Return your stolen goods and I will spare you my father’s punishment!” He called.  
“Kell…” Constance murmured a warning in his ear. “Kell, let them go.”  
“No!” He hissed insistently. “They’re breaking the law!”  
“It’s just pheasants, Kell!”  
“You were best to listen to her, child.” Another hearty laugh from the men. It didn’t occur to the children that both men were a little worse for ale until the second man shouted: “How ‘bout we hunt your girl instead, eh?”  
The twins froze on the spot as the men advanced on Constance. Regaining himself at almost the last moment, Keller dove toward them, nicking the larger man’s chest with the top of his blade. Roaring in indignation, sweltering in ale-induced fury, the man stuck his dagger into Keller’s side.  
With a strangled wail, Keller hit the grass, clutching at the blood pouring from his ribs. Constance’s skin burned red hot. She felt her insides boil with rage and horror and instant, overwhelming grief. There was no chance that Keller would survive the wound – he was already pale and choking on his breath.  
The sight of her brother bloodied and on the sheer ledge of death, hit her like a wall. Her fingers tingled, burned, exploded – and sent a shower of swirling fireballs down on the men. Their clothing lit instantly, their skin began to blister, and they choked on the smoke their own bodies were producing. In less than three minutes, they lay dead on the ground.  
Feeling the fire recede within her, Constance threw herself at Keller’s folded body, picking up his head and running her fingers through his hair. Though he could not breathe, she thought she saw him mouth, “I’m sorry.” She felt him slip away in her hands, saw his eyes dim through the torrent of her tears. It felt like years that she knelt there, holding him against her and crying into his doublet.  
Eventually, the sound of hooves broke the silent clearing, and crashing armour told her Ser Colling had come to find them.  
Arthur Colling, knight-protector of Bann Trevelyan’s youngest children, shuddered in horror when he saw her. Bent in half, on her knees, holding onto Keller’s shoulders. Both of them covered in blood. There were scorch marks on the ground around the charred remains of two large, adult bodies.  
Ser Colling knelt next to Constance and gingerly put on gloved hand on her back. “What happened, little one?” The name he called she needed kindness. When she was unsure. When her when her parents were not there to disapprove. To them, Colling was little better than a peasant.  
Constance clutched Keller closer and slowly began her tale. Strangling on sobs and shaking, she spared no detail.  
He listened patiently and when she was done he rose and went to his horse, extracting a blanket from the steed’s saddle bag. “May I?” He asked, motioning to Keller. The girl nodded slowly but did not move away. She helped the knight wrap her brother in the blanket and let him lift Keller onto his horse. “We should bring him home,” Colling told her gently. When she could not move to follow, he scooped her up in his arms. “Come on, little one,” he murmured.

The Trevelyan estate went into deep mourning. They laid their youngest son to rest with all the pomp and circumstance that a boy of his station deserved. They stood stoic by his grave: even Constance had spent her last tear.  
The day following the funeral, Bann Trevelyan found his young daughter praying fervently in their private shrine. She was whispering about forgiveness, asking for mercy. Now, the Bann thought, now would be as good a time as any to tell her about her future. But first, something more important had to be discussed.  
He asked her for the truth – for what had really happened to her brother.  
And in her trusting foolishness, she told him. He could not, for all his might, look her in the eye. He stared at her hands, her abominable fingertips. He recoiled violently and gasped to the state of the Maker before them: “Why? Why was I sent a horror for a daughter? Why has the Maker punished us?”  
Constance did not have a chance to react before he shoved his way off of the pew and put several feet of distance between them. “Monster!” He pronounced, eyes full of fear and hatred. “You are an insult to the Maker.” And with a pitiful wretch in his voice: “You are not my child.”  
The Templars came for her before dinner.


	2. Virtues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SPOILERS! Takes place post-Revelations.
> 
> After Blackwall's judgement, Constance struggles with her own conscience over whether or not her decision was just. Descending into self-doubt, she worries that everything was doomed from the start.

“Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter. Blessed are the Peacekeepers, the Champions of the Just.” Alone in the quiet room off of Skyhold’s garden, at Andraste’s feet, Constance Trevelyan tried desperately to force the soaring chaos in her heart down into quite contemplation. Here, kneeling before the Bride of the Maker, was the only place she had ever been able to truly focus her thoughts. Prayer kept her mind in order. Here she could concentrate. “Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. In their blood the Maker’s will is written.”  
“Andraste guide me – have I done right? Have I served justice? Have I been merciful and good? Because I feel selfish. I feel horrible greed and want. This once, my hand may not have been guided by the desire for peace, but by desire itself. Maker, teach me to follow your signs. Teach me to understand the path you have set down for me. Teach me how to be an instrument of your will.”  
She wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her robe. She had been on the verge of tears for days, fighting them at every turn. She was determined to make the right decision, always. Determined to be right. Determined to – well, to save him. When everything boiled down to bone, he had done a terrible thing and spent his life afterward working to help people in atonement. Working to be a better man when even he was convinced that it was an unachievable goal. Who did not deserve forgiveness if he did not? Who did not exhibit true remorse if he did not? But she knew others did not agree with her. And she could not necessarily dispute them.  
“Andraste preserve me, but he knew our love was selfish. He fought it – begged me to end it. But I could not then and I could not this morning. Is love weakness? Or are we weak for bending to it?" Her lips trembled but she could not cry. The image of Blackwall in irons hung in front of her like a heavy curtain. It made her heart ache: to see the man she loved a captive in their home – their sanctuary. To be the only one who could grant him mercy? To hold his very life in her hands? It was shattering her, even hours after the decision had been made.  
She lay prostrate at Andraste’s feet. “A sign. A signal? Anything?” She begged the statue. “If the Maker meant to punish me for my sins he could have sent me to the void!” She cried out, grasping at stone and wrenching with sobs that would not come. “Was I born to suffer? Would you take Keller and Roderick from me and now Blackwall as well?” Finding stones on the ground around her, she hurled them across the room in great handfuls. “My family, my lover, my only sense of self?” She was screaming now – frustrations falling forth in a torrent of anger. Flames lurched in her palms, swirling around her fingers and licking up to her wrists, straining to be released.  
“Why me?! What terrible sin did I commit at birth?” She was back on her knees, beating the stone with her fists. “What must I do to appease you, Maker? Why will you never let me be happy?!” Her hands were bloody, her fire beginning to cauterize the wounds. She felt no pain, though. The ache in her heart overwhelmed her.  
What she did feel, moments later, was a pair of strong hands taking hold of her shoulders. She fought them, twisted against their grip, but they held tight. “Shh…” the voice said, pulling her up against him. “Hush, cousin.” Dorian hugged her close.  
“It’s not fair,” she managed to say. “I have done everything ever asked of me. Why am I being punished?”  
“These are your trials,” he told her. “Andraste was killed by the Imperium, you are tortured by your good heart.” She felt a kiss plant on her forehead. “And in the ages to come, when heroes and peasants and nobles and all the faithful crouch at the feet of a statue of the great Herald of Andraste, they will seek your guidance through their own trials.” She stayed silent. And he continued. “There is no true right from wrong, cousin. Not here. But you are more honest and good than anyone I have ever known, and that, I think, will be what sees you through.”  
“I cannot do it without him,” she leaned her forehead on Dorian’s chest.  
He wrapped both of his arms around her and sighed. “And that is why you spared him.”  
“Yes.” Her voice muffled in the folds of his clothing.  
“You did what you did out of love. An act of mercy for a suffering man. I can see no evil in that.”  
He released her when he felt her muscles finally go slack. “Go,” he said, nudging her toward the door. “He’s been muttering to himself in the barn all afternoon.” And then, gently. “He needs you, too, you know.”


	3. Apprehension

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a discussion with xStephyG about how men in fanfic (specifically men like Cullen and Blackwall) are always protrayed as being overly well-endowed, and how we felt that the powerful situations surrounding body shaming and apprehension between lovers is universal across sexes - and I ended up writing this. I'm particularly proud of how well it fits into Constance and Blackwall's relationship.

            This wasn’t how this was supposed to happen. She was supposed to find better than him – accept that he was no good, or too old, or not handsome enough. Something that would drive her into someone else’s arms. But she’d stuck with him, in spite of every reason he’d given her as to why she shouldn’t. And now she was here: in _his_ arms, sighing under _his_ touch, tilting her head so the little nips and bites she adored could be lavished further down her gorgeous neck. _Please let this be enough_ , he prayed. Please let her be satisfied with hands and lips and tongue one more time. Please let me put her disappointment off until another day. Please don’t ruin her ‘I love you’s with the forced smile and meek noises that always followed the discovery.

            But maybe this would be the thing that would convince her to leave. The thing that would send her to someone else. Maker, it would _kill_ him, but it would save her. So maybe it was a blessing in disguise.

            Her hands were trailing down his bare sides, fingers tracing scars while she sighed and moaned in his ear, squirming as he went up and down her shoulder, sucking her pulse (but careful not to bruise, so she wouldn’t regret her poor decision in the looking glass tomorrow). Little kisses, long kisses – anything to distract her from the path her fingers were taking. A light bite on her ear lobe that he knew would make her cry out. A circle traced with his tongue at the tip of her jaw to make her squirm. Anything to make her happy. _Anything_. Please, he thought, as loudly as he could. Please just let me make love to you once. Please let me prove to you that I can. Please let me hold on to that memory long after you’ve gone. Because every woman before her had gone – many of them quickly – and there was no reason that she would be any different.

            Her fingertips were slipping into the top of her trousers and she rolled her hips against him once, twice, and he kissed her fiercely. If it was going to be the last kiss they had, it was going to be a good one. But he kept his eyes closed when she pulled away, squeezing them tight when her delicate fingers started to untie his laces. Maybe she would let him down gently. That would be like her: to be sweet about it. To promise that it was her, and not him. She might even let him love her just this once before she left. She would say it was irresponsible to be with anyone because of her position, because she was the sort of woman who would say that. Who would make herself the villain to spare his feelings.

            And then she was cupping him through his smalls, and he couldn’t help the groan that ripped out of him. He raised his opened eyes to the ceiling in a silent prayer. _Please. Please stay. I love you._

            He felt her kneel down even though he couldn’t see her. Heard her knees gently bump against the floorboards. He was pulling down his smalls along with his trousers, about to debase herself for his supposed benefit. He held his eyes closed tight when he felt himself spring free, face still upturned, and waited for the sound. The small hum of disappointment that she would quickly smother. But she would stand up, and kiss his cheek lightly, and be very polite about whatever she might let him do to her after she discovered how little he had to please her with.

            But then her lips wrapped around him, and the hum was enthusiastic, vibrating around his length as her cheeks followed out and he couldn’t stop his hips from thrusting forward in surprise.

            Surprise that made his eyes shoot down, where he found her gazing up at him as she bobbed up and down – up and down – until her lips came off him with an obscene popping sound and she smiled.

            “Make love to me?” She asked.

            Maker’s breath, she sounded hopeful. As though she actually wanted him.

            “Please?” She asked again.

            And when she stood, her hand stayed wrapped around him, and her lips came up to his ear. “I want you,” she whispered.

            And he shivered: “As my lady wishes.”


	4. Dove

            “What are you doing?” Blackwall had been wandering Skyhold for the better part of the last hour looking for her. He should have known he’d find her in a pile of books.

            “Oh, this?” She waved the little figure in her hand. “Just a bit of silliness.”

            “Silliness?” He grinned broadly at the sight of it.

            Constance was sitting on the floor, her back to the enormous built-in bookcases, and it took him a moment or two to settle down next to her – he wasn’t nearly as dexterous as she was, and curled into a corner didn’t suit him very well. Not to mention the sea of books he had to shift just to get near her.

            “It feels silly sometimes,” she examined the little bird in her palm. “Such a little thing, to mean so much. There are so many things that need attention, so many things to fix. And here I am looking at a little wooden dove.”

            “You prefer gentler things,” he observed quietly. The library was not entirely empty, and this conversation was rapidly approaching private. “It’s something I’ve always admired about you, my lady.”

            “Admire?” She raised one eyebrow. “You gave me this months ago. We barely knew each other then.”

            “You know, then, how easy it is for a man to come to admire a lady like yourself.” He edged a little nearer, closing one of his large hands around her soft, small one.

            “Flatterer.” She liked to tease him about it, but mostly she was unsure how to take compliments like his: so sure, so wholly ardent. She nestled gladly into his side when he lifted his arm to let her in, neither of them breaking his hold on her hand.

            “I call you ‘dove’ for a reason,” he contested. “You have a pure heart. And sometimes that extends to sitting in corners of libraries admiring little wooden tokens of old men’s affections.”

            “You’re not old,” she reminded him for the fifth time that week. With a small amount of maneuvering, she managed to draw herself up tall enough to kiss him with his arm still wrapped around her shoulder. “I love you, you know.”

            He merely laughed, nuzzling her cheek with his beard until she cracked a smile. “I love you, too, dove.”

            “Good.” She nodded authoritatively. “Now shoo. I should be researching, and I won’t get anything done with you tempting me.”

            He quirked his head at that, smile becoming a wolfish little grin, but he rose as he was bidden and made for the stairs. “If you had asked me to stay, I would’ve,” he called over his shoulder.

            “See?” She called back, pulling a new set of volumes off the bottom shelf next to her. “Tempting!”


End file.
